“Who will give us a brief summary of the plot?” I asked.
“I will.” Marcie puffed out her chest and cleared her throat. “Poirot receives a letter announcing that a murder will take place on a specific day in a town beginning with the letter A. And it happens. Alice Ascher in Andover is killed before Poirot can save her life.”
Ruth giggled. “This reminds me of a game we used to play with a pink Spaulding ball when we were little: A, my name is Alice. My husband’s name is Al. I come from Alabama, and I sell Apples.”
“Mo-om, please." Marcie frowned at Ruth. “If I may continue. A murder takes place in towns beginning with B, C, and D. Poirot receives a letter before each murder, but each time he arrives too late to stop the murderer. Then it seems that the wrong person is killed in the town beginning with D, and a quiet, unassuming man named Alexander Bonaparte Cust is arrested. We read excerpts written from his point of view, which lead us to believe he’s committed the crimes.”
“Only Hercule Poirot doesn’t believe Cust is guilty,” Ginger tossed in.
“Correct!” Marcie boomed in her teacher’s voice of approval. “Cust is surprised when Hercule Poirot visits him in jail. He’s never heard of the detective. That’s when we learn he’s an epileptic who loses consciousness after every convulsion. Since all the murdered people bought stockings from him, Cust assumes he’s killed them, though he can’t remember having done so.”
Paulette raised her hand. “Marcie, you forgot to add that Poirot forms a committee of the people connected to the A, B, and C murder victims. He uses his little grey cells.”
We all laughed, but Marcie wasn’t amused. Nostrils flaring, she finished her summary. “Poirot proves that Franklin Clarke, whose brother was among those killed, actually murdered all four people and managed to put the blame on poor A. B. Cust.”
“He killed the others to cover up his intended crime,” Todd said.
“And had no compunction about blaming it on poor Cust,” Ginger added. “Christie’s murderers are heartless. They feel no guilt about killing and framing someone else for their crimes.”
I nodded. “Let’s talk for a minute about the methods Poirot employs to identify the murderer. Anyone?”
“For one thing,” Rosie said, “Poirot says he counts on his friend, Captain Hastings, to state the obvious.”
“Very good,” I said. “Sometimes the facts are before us, though we can’t see the forest for the trees. In fact, I think Poirot uses that expression. In this book, the various murders are the forest—to cover up for the one murder that’s intended.”
As I spoke, something about the real murders clicked into place. I caught Brian’s eye and he winked.
I continued. “By focusing on what he knows to be the murderer’s character and personality, Poirot manages to reveal his identity. One of the victims, Betty Barnard, was a flirt. Poirot figures the murderer had to be personable enough to lure her to her death, something Cust could never have done. Besides, Cust has an alibi for her murder.
“Which is how Poirot arrives at his conclusion that Franklin Clarke is the murderer.”
I glanced around the room. All eyes were on me, but no one offered to speak. “Clarke was the only one of the group who had something to gain from the death of any of the four victims. He was after his brother’s fortune, and to get it, he killed three other people.”
“Personality may give the murderer away,” Todd said, “but concrete evidence is required to convict him of his crimes.”
My heart sank as I considered that no evidence had been found in the three Old Cadfield murders. The police hadn’t found the vase from the lilies of the valley, fingerprints on the vase used to kill Gerda, or the damaged car that had sent Anne to her watery death. I forced myself to return to our discussion.
“As for evidence, Poirot finds the murder weapon Franklin Clarke used to kill two of his victims."
Al laughed. “And after Clarke pulls out a gun, he discovers Poirot had someone remove the bullets.”
I nodded. “Dame Agatha’s sleuths think of everything when they expose a murderer.” Or murderers. My eyes nearly bugged out as everything concerning the Old Cadfield murders fell into place. What must have happened was suddenly as clear to me as a pane of glass.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
At six thirty Hal and Sam Blessing arrived. They helped the others polish off the remaining nuts and chips. Lowell arrived ten minutes later, harried and upset. He all but shoved a bottle of merlot into my hands, muttering something about his in-laws coming as soon as a problem was resolved. Then he rushed off to find Paulette.
I placed more chips and Ruth’s dips out on the dining room table and asked Todd to uncork three bottles of wine. I slid trays of burritos, spinach pie, and mini franks into the oven. My hostess duties fulfilled for the moment, I called Rosie, Al, and Brian into the kitchen. The moment the swinging doors stopped swinging, I told them who had killed the three victims and how I’d figured everything out.
“And I did it using Dame Agatha’s methods.”
Rosie shook her head in disbelief. “That’s impossible! You must be wrong.”
Her incredulity irked me. “Come on, Rosie. The murderer had to be someone you know.”
“Lexie’s conclusions sound plausible to me!” Al said.
Brian grimaced. “To me, too, but we need evidence.”
“Will you settle for a confession?” I asked. “You shall have one, by the time I’m through.”
Three pairs of eyes glared at me.
Brian was the first to regain his power of speech. “What the hell are you planning, Lexie? You’re in way over your head!”
Before I could answer, his cell phone rang. He scowled at me, then strode out of the kitchen to speak in private. I wondered if the call had anything to do with the Old Cadfield murders.
Al put a hand on my shoulder. “Lexie, don’t do anything reckless.”
“Of course not,” I lied. “Rosie, please help me bring out more appetizers.”
“Of course.”
Al sent me a questioning look, but I waved him out of the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a container of guacamole and cut-up veggies then checked on the hors d’oeuvres warming in the oven. They weren’t piping hot, which was how I liked to serve them, but if I didn’t take them out now, I probably wouldn’t get to them in time and they’d burn to a crisp.
The party was in full swing as Rosie and I carried our trays into the living room. I navigated slowly around the room, pausing before each group to give my guests ample opportunity to spear several mini hors d’oeuvres and set them on their plates. Still no sign of Adele and Bob. Where were they? What kind of delay was holding them up? I wanted them here, but I had to move ahead with my plan. It was now or never.
I stopped at Ginger and Todd, laughing and feeding each other guacamole-covered chips. “Ginger, I hate to interrupt, but I need you to play hostess and carry this tray around the room until every scrap of food is gone.”
She gave me an odd look, but rose to her feet. “Sure, Aunt Lexie. Whatever.”
I wandered over to Lowell and Paulette, sitting side by side on two dining room chairs. They both wore glum expressions.
“I see you’ve invited Detective Donovan.” Lowell guzzled the rest of his beer.
“He likes Agatha Christie novels,” I answered.
Lowell stood. “I’m getting another beer.”
“Lowell... ” Paulette said.
He ignored her and strode off.
I took his seat and plastered on my brightest, phoniest smile. “I hope you enjoyed the book discussion.”
“I sure did,” Paulette said, though her mind was obviously on Lowell and his foul mood.
“Which Christie novel did you enjoy more—A Murder Is Announced or The A.B.C. Murders?”
Paulette wrinkled her nose as she thought. Tonight she wore a pink and white flowered polo and white capris. She was the picture of a pretty if vapid young wo
man in the blush of life.
“I have to go with A Murder Is Announced,” she decided, her tone solemn as though she were a participant on a TV quiz show. “I like that it takes place in a small village, and many of the characters have secret pasts." She smiled. “And I like Miss Marple better than Hercule Poirot.”
“Would you say the murders in both books were carefully planned?”
Paulette shrugged. “I suppose.”
“Not like the murder you committed,” I said.
The plate she'd been holding slipped from her trembling fingers. “What did you say?”
“You didn’t plan your murder very carefully. You were furious at Anne for showing up with Lowell at our first meeting, so you poured water from the lilies of the valley into her iced tea.”
“You’re crazy!”
All conversation stopped. All eyes stared at us. Paulette turned her flushed face to me. “I never killed anyone!”
Brian came to stand beside her chair. “I don’t think you meant to, but Mrs. Morris wasn’t in the best of health when she drank Anne Chadwick’s iced tea by mistake. Ms. Chadwick might have survived the toxic water." He smiled. “But then, you took care of her at the next meeting, didn’t you?”
All color drained from Paulette’s face. “I never killed Anne. I swear I didn’t!" She began to sob.
Before any of us could do more than gape, the front door flew open. Adele stormed into the house, angry as a wounded bear. Bob traipsed after her, trying to calm her down. He clutched her arm, but she shook herself free and rushed over to her daughter.
“Paulette, we have to talk!"
Paulette ignored her mother and continued to weep into her hands. Frustrated, Adele shook her by the shoulders. “This is serious, Paulette. Pull yourself together and come with me. We need to speak in private.”
I caught Brian’s eye. He nodded as if to say let it play out. Paulette followed Adele into the hall. When her mother continued to walk towards the bedrooms, Paulette stamped her foot. “We’ll talk here.”
Adele let out a sigh of frustration, but backtracked to where her daughter stood. She put an arm around Paulette’s shoulders as she whispered in her ear. When she was finished, Paulette wriggled free of her mother’s grasp and laughed maniacally. “You’re too much, Mother!” She made no effort to lower her voice. “All my life you’ve drilled it into my head that I’ll always need you because I’m not as clever as the other girls. Only it turns out you’re the stupid one.”
Adele began to tremble. “Paulette, I didn’t mean—”
“I ask you to do one simple thing—get rid of the vase—and you leave it in the trunk of your car.”
Adele’s face turned a ghostly white. “I never dreamed they’d examine my car." Her voice went soft. “Come on, Baby, don’t act like this. We can still set things right.”
Lowell inserted himself between the two women. He shoved Adele away, causing her to stumble. I gasped, as did everyone else.
“Leave my wife alone!" He led Paulette back into the living room, while the rest of us stared transfixed.
Adele followed him. Oblivious of her audience, she yanked on his arm until she had his attention. “Paulette needs me,” she hissed. “I’m the only one who understands her.”
“Why did the police want to examine your car?” Paulette asked her mother.
Adele finally realized a roomful of people, including a police detective, were hanging on to her every word. She drew back her shoulders and, in a cajoling voice, said, “I’ll explain everything later, Paulette, the moment we leave this house.”
“Let me clarify the situation.” Brian joined the small group. “Paulette, the police have impounded your mother’s car to see if the paint matches the damage done to Anne Chadwick’s car when she was driven off the road.”
Paulette gasped. “You did that?”
Brian turned to Adele. “And once the crime scene people check the vase found in the trunk for fingerprints, we’ll have proof that your daughter killed Sylvia Morris.”
Adele laughed, a brittle, jarring sound. “That vase proves nothing. Anyone could have handled it the night Sylvia died.”
“Died?” Brian said, his tone ominous. “Mrs. Morris was murdered. And you happen to be in possession of what the jury will consider evidence that your daughter murdered her. You were in the Gordons’ home that evening. Paulette gave you the vase to dispose of, after she poisoned the wrong person.”
Paulette hugged herself and began to moan.
Brian cut her no slack. “Which meant Anne Chadwick, the woman you hated, was still alive and carrying on with your husband. So you waited until the following meeting and mowed her down with your mother’s car." He laughed. “A really clever move, since we only examined the cars of everyone who’d attended that meeting.”
Paulette looked up at him. “I didn’t kill Anne! I swear it!”
“Of course she didn’t,” Adele said. “I killed them both.”
Silence reigned as we absorbed Adele’s words.
“And you murdered Mrs. Stein?” Brian asked.
“I did,” Adele admitted.
“Why?”
“She saw me pour the poisoned water into a glass and tried to blackmail me.”
“Sure you did, Mrs. Blum. You’re an overprotective mother, but covering for your daughter’s crimes is above and beyond maternal love.”
“It’s true!" Adele’s voice rose to a high soprano. “I stopped by Rosie’s house the night of the first meeting. Hal gave me some sugar, which was what I’d come for, then went back into the den to watch TV. Paulette came into the kitchen, furious at Lowell and Anne for rubbing their affair in her face. He’d had the audacity to drive Anne to Rosie’s, then fawn over her all through dinner. I had to do something about it.”
“You couldn’t have,” I pointed out. “You had no idea where anyone was sitting. You never came into the library. I would have seen you if you had.”
“Mom!” Paulette said in anguish. “They know!”
“Then, Mrs. Hartman, you rectified matters after the second meeting by running Ms. Chadwick off the road,” Brian said.
“I didn’t!” Paulette shouted. “I swear I didn’t. I’m glad Anne’s dead, but it wasn’t me who killed her.”
“I’m telling you, I killed Anne!” Adele screeched. “I killed them all!”
Paulette stared at her mother in disbelief. “You really did. I was afraid—”
“Afraid it was your precious husband?” Adele laughed. “Marrying him was a big mistake, Baby. You’d be well rid of him.”
Paulette’s eyes filled with horror. “You tried to kill Lowell the night of the gala! I saw you go up the stairs, but told myself it couldn’t be!" Tears streamed down her face.
I was reminded of her crying in the bathroom that night. Now I knew why she’d been so upset.
Rosie pushed her way past Brian and me to punch her cousin smack on the jaw.
“That’s for nearly killing Ginger!”
Adele had the grace to look contrite. “I’m sorry, Rosie, but your daughter had no business running after my daughter’s husband." She glowered at Lowell and me. “You two were up to something, weren’t you? Someone had to stop Lowell and his philandering ways." She shrugged. “If two of his tramps happened to get hurt from a falling planter, such is life.”
Paulette pulled herself together. With an air of self-possession I’d never have thought her capable, she turned to her mother. “I hate you, Mom. You tried to kill Lowell, and you got him fired. How could you? Your own son-in-law.”
Lowell lunged at Adele. “You sneaky, interfering bitch! Paulette and I would have gotten along just fine if you’d stayed the hell out of our lives! And now you’ve ruined my career as well.”
Brian grabbed Lowell’s arm to stop him from striking Adele.
She let out a sardonic laugh. “It's your own fault, Lowell. If the firm didn’t have good cause, they never would have sent you on your way. Besides, look at al
l the money you’ve gotten by blackmailing me.”
Brian opened the front door and four police officers entered the house. One moved toward Paulette, a pair of handcuffs in hand.
She edged away from him, whimpering. “Please! You can’t arrest me. I didn’t mean for anything to really happen!”
Lowell drew her close. “Don’t say another word! It’s a bluff. Even with the vase, they haven’t enough evidence to charge you of any crime.”
What kind of a lawyer was he? We’d all heard Paulette’s confession.
Paulette hiccupped, then wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “I don’t feel very good.”
I watched, dumbfounded, as Lowell reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and handed it to his wife. “Here. Blow.”
Paulette blew her nose and handed the handkerchief back to Lowell. He crammed it in a pocket, then put a protective arm around her. “We’re leaving.”
“What you can do, Mr. Hartman, is hire a good criminal lawyer." Brian nodded, and the officer handcuffed Paulette.
“Paulette Hartman, I’m arresting you for the murder of Sylvia Morris. You have the right to remain silent—”
Paulette’s shriek brought a quick end to the reading of her rights.
Adele glared at Brian. “My daughter didn’t kill anyone! How can you believe she did?”
His response was to declare she was being arrested for two counts of murder and the attempted murder of three people, as another of his men deftly handcuffed her. My other guests were too stunned to utter a sound as mother and daughter were escorted to the squad cars outside. Lowell and Bob Blum hurried to their cars, intent on arriving at the police station in time to offer solace to their wives. I felt sorry for Bob but not for Lowell. He’d played a big role in setting this tragedy into motion. I wished there were legal means to haul him off in handcuffs, as well.
“I’ll call you,” Brian said as he passed me on his way out.
It surprised me that, with all that had happened, my other guests chose to stay and enjoy the rest of the party. I put up coffee and boiled water for tea, while Rosie and Ginger set out desserts on the kitchen table.
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